Plum Island

CHAPTER 34

Beth seemed mesmerized by the specter of the huge boat looming over us.

It kind of surprised me, too. I mean, I hadn't heard it over the roar of the storm and the sound of our own engines. Also, visibility was limited and the Chris-Craft wasn't showing any running lights.

In any event, Fredric Tobin had outflanked us and all I could think of was the bow of the Autumn Gold cleaving through the stern of the Sandra; a Freudian image if ever there was one.

Anyway, it looked as if we were going to be sunk.

Realizing we'd seen him, Mr. Tobin turned on his electric hailing horn and shouted, "Fuck you!"

I mean, really.

I pushed forward on the throttles and the distance between us and him widened. He knew he couldn't overtake a Formula 303, even in these seas. He greeted us again with, "Fuck you both! You're dead! You're dead!"

Freddie's voice was kind of screechy, but maybe that was a result of the electric distortion.

Beth had drawn her 9mm Clock at some point, and she was crouched behind her chair, trying to steady her aim on the back of the seat. I thought she should be firing, but she wasn't.

I glanced back at the Chris-Craft and noticed now that Tobin wasn't on the exposed fly bridge, but was in the deckhouse cabin where I knew there was a complete second set of controls. I noticed, too, that the hinged windshield on the helm side of the cabin was raised. More interesting than that, the skipper, Captain Freddie, was leaning out the open window, holding a rifle in his right hand, and I assume steadying the helm with his left. His right shoulder was braced against the window frame and the rifle was now pointed at us.

Well, here we were in two wildly moving boats in the dark with no lights, the wind and waves and all that, and I guessed that's why Tobin hadn't opened fire yet. I yelled to Beth, "Pop off a couple."

She called back, "I'm not supposed to fire until he fires."

"Shoot the fucking gun!"

She did. In fact, she popped off all fifteen rounds, and I saw the windshield beside Tobin shatter. I also noticed that F. Tobin was no longer leaning out the window with his rifle. I called to Beth, "Good job!"

She slammed another fifteen-round magazine into the pistol and covered the cabin cruiser.

I kept glancing over my shoulder as I tried to control the Formula in the steadily worsening sea. All of a sudden, Tobin popped up at the open window, and I saw his rifle flash. "Down!" I yelled. The rifle flashed three more times, and I heard a round thud into the dashboard, then my windshield shattered. Beth was returning the fire, slower, steadier than before.

I knew we couldn't match the accuracy of his rifle so I gave the engines full throttle and we took off, crashing through the tops of the waves and away from the Chris-Craft. At about sixty feet, neither of us was visible to the other. I heard his hailing horn crackle, then his tinny, tiny voice came across the stormy seas. "Fuck you! You'll drown! You'll never survive this storm! Fuck you!"

This didn't sound like the suave and debonair gentleman I'd come to know and dislike. This was a man who had lost it.

"You're dead! You're both fucking dead!"

I was really annoyed at being taunted by a man who had just murdered my lover. I said to Beth, "That bastard dies."

"Don't let him get to you, John. He's finished and he knows it. He's desperate."

He's desperate? We weren't in great shape either.

Anyway, Beth stayed in her firing stance, facing the stern, trying to steady her pistol on the back of the seat. She said to me, "John, come around in a wide circle, and we'll get behind him."

"Beth, I'm not John Paul Jones and this is not a naval engagement."

"I don't want him behind us!"

"Don't worry about it. Just keep an eye out." I glanced at the fuel gauge and saw the needle between one eighth and E. I said, "We don't have the fuel for maneuvers."

She asked me, "Do you think he's still going to Plum Island?"

"That's where the gold is."

"But he knows we're on to him."

"Which is why he's going to keep on trying to kill us." I added, "Or at least witness that we capsized and drowned."

She didn't reply for a while, then asked me, "How did we get ahead of him?"

"I guess we were going faster than him. Law of physics."

"Do you have a plan?"

"Nope. Do you?"

"Is it time to head for a safe harbor?"

"Maybe. But we can't go back. I don't want to run into Freddie's rifle again."

Beth found the plastic-coated chart on the deck and unfolded it on the dashboard. She pointed and said, "That must be Long Beach Bar Lighthouse over there."

I looked off to our right front and saw a faint blinking light.

She continued, "If we head to the left of the lighthouse, we may be able to see some channel markers that will lead us to East Marion or Orient. We can dock someplace, and call the Coast Guard or the security people on Plum Island and alert them to the situation."

I glanced at the chart, which was lit by the faint glow of a reading light on the dashboard. I said, "There's no way I can navigate this boat in this storm through these narrow channels. The only place I can get into is Greenport or maybe Dering, and Freddie's between us and those harbors."

She thought a moment, then said, "In other words, we're not chasing him anymore. He's chasing us — out into the open water."

"Well… you could say we're leading him into a trap."

"What trap?"

"I knew you'd ask that. Trust me."

"Why?"

"Why not?" I cut back on the throttles and the Formula settled down a little. I said to Beth, "Actually, I like it this way. Now I know for sure where he is and where he's going." I added, "I'd rather deal with him on land. We'll meet him on Plum Island."

Beth folded her chart. "Right." She glanced back over her shoulder and said, "He's got us outgunned and outboated."

"Correct." I set a course that would take us to the right of the lighthouse out into Gardiners Bay, which in turn would put us on a course to Plum Island. I asked her, "How many rounds do you have left?"

She replied, "I have nine left in this magazine and a full magazine of fifteen in my pocket."

"Good enough." I glanced at her and said, "Nice shooting back there."

"Not really."

"You upset his aim. You may also have hit him."

She didn't reply.

I said to her, "I heard that last round go past my ear before it went through the windshield. Jeez! Just like old times back in the city." I asked her, as an afterthought, "You okay?"

"Well…"

I looked quickly toward her. "What's the matter?"

"Not sure…"

"Beth? What's the matter?" I could see her left hand moving over her rain slicker and she winced. She brought her hand out and it was covered in blood. She said, "Damn…"

I was literally speechless.

She said, "Funny… I didn't realize I was hit… then I felt this warm… It's okay though… just a graze."

"Are you… are you sure…?"

"Yeah… I can feel where it passed through…"

"Let's see. Come here."

She moved closer to where I stood at the wheel, turned toward the stern and loosened her life vest, then raised her slicker and shirt. Her rib cage, between her breast and her hip, was covered with blood. I reached out and said, "Steady." I felt for the wound and was relieved to discover that it was indeed a graze running along the lower rib. The gash was deep, but had not exposed the bone.

Beth let out a gasp as my fingers probed into the wound. I took my hand away and said, "It's okay."

"That's what I told you."

"I just get a kick out of sticking my fingers into gunshot wounds. Hurt yet?"

"It didn't. Now it does."

"Go below and find the first-aid kit."

She went below.

I scanned the horizon. Even in the darkness, I could see the two points of land on either side that marked the end of the relatively calm strait.

Within a minute, we were out into Gardiners Bay. Within two minutes, the sea looked like someone switched the dial to spin and rinse. The wind howled, the waves crashed, the boat was nearly out of control, and I was weighing my options.

Beth scrambled up from the cabin and held on to the handgrip on the dashboard.

I called out over the sound of the wind and the waves, "Are you okay?"

She nodded, then yelled, "John! We have to turn back!"

I knew she was right. The Formula was not made for this and neither was I. Then I recalled Tom Gordon's words to me on my porch that night which seemed so long ago. A boat in the harbor is a safe boat. But that's not what boats are for.

In truth, I was no longer frightened by the sea or by the possibility of my death, for that matter. I was running on pure adrenaline and hate. I glanced at Beth and our eyes met. She seemed to understand, but she didn't want to share my psychotic episode. She said, "John… if we die, he gets away with it. We have to get into some harbor or inlet somewhere."

"I can't… I mean, we'd run aground and sink. We have to ride it out."

She didn't reply.

I said, "We can put in at Plum Island. I can get into that cove. It's well marked and lit. They have their own generator."

She opened the chart again and stared at it as if trying to find an answer to our dilemma. In fact, as I'd already concluded, the only possible harbors, Greenport and Dering, lay behind us, and between us and those harbors was Tobin.

She said, "Now that we're out in the open sea, we should be able to circle around and get past him and back to Greenport."

I shook my head. "Beth, we have to stay in the marked channel. If we lost sight of these channel markers, we're finished. We're on a narrow highway and there's a guy with a rifle behind us and the only way to go is straight."

She looked at me and I could tell she didn't completely believe me, which was understandable because I wasn't completely telling the truth. The truth was, I wanted to kill Fredric Tobin. When I thought he'd killed Tom and Judy, I would have been satisfied seeing the great State of New York kill him. Now, after he murdered Emma, I had to kill him myself. Calling the Coast Guard or Plum Island security was not going to even the score. In fact, regarding score, I wondered where Paul Stevens was this night.

Beth broke into my thoughts and said, "Five innocent people are dead, John, and that's five too many. I won't let you throw away my life or yours. We're heading back. Now."

I looked at her and said, "Are you going to pull your gun on me?"

"If you make me."

I kept staring at her and said, "Beth, I can handle this weather. I know I can handle it. We're going to be okay. Trust me."

She stared back at me a long time, then said, "Tobin murdered Emma Whitestone right under your nose and that was an attack on your manhood, an insult to your macho image and your ego. That's what's driving you on. Right?"

No use lying, so I said, "That's part of it."

"What's the other part?"

"Well… I was falling in love with her."

Beth nodded. She seemed contemplative, then said, "Okay… if you're going to get us killed anyway, then you may as well know the whole truth."

"What whole truth?"

She replied, "Whoever killed Emma Whitestone… and I guess it was Tobin… also first raped her."

I didn't reply. I should say I wasn't completely shocked either.

There is a primitive side to all men, including fops like Fredric Tobin, and this dark side, when it takes over, plays itself out in a predictable and very scary way. I could say I've seen it all — rape, torture, kidnapping, maiming, murder, and everything else in the penal code. But this was the first time that a bad guy was sending a personal message to me. And I wasn't handling it with my usual cool. He raped her. And while he was doing it to her, he was — or thought he was — doing it to me.

Neither of us spoke for a while, and in fact, the noise of the engines and the wind and sea made any talk difficult, which was okay with me.

Beth sat in the left seat and held the arms tightly as the boat pitched, rolled, yawed, and did everything else but spin and dive.

I remained standing at the wheel, braced against the seat. The wind blew through the shattered glass in front of me, and the rain sliced in from all angles. The fuel was low, I was cold, wet, exhausted, and very troubled by that image of Tobin doing that to Emma. Beth seemed strangely silent, almost catatonic, staring straight ahead at each onrushing wave.

Finally, she seemed to come alive, and looked back over her shoulder. Without a word, she got out of the chair and went to the rear of the boat. I glanced at her and saw her take up a kneeling position in the stern as she drew her 9mm. I looked out at the sea behind us, but saw only the walls of waves trailing the boat. Then, as the Formula rode up on a big wave, I could see the fly bridge of the Chris-Craft behind us again, not more than sixty feet away and closing fast. I made a decision and cut the throttles back, leaving only enough power to control the boat. Beth heard the engines rev down and glanced back at me, then nodded in understanding. She turned back toward the Chris-Craft and steadied her aim. We had to meet the beast.

Tobin had not noticed the sudden difference in relative speed and before he knew it, the Chris-Craft was less than twenty feet from the Formula, and he hadn't gotten his rifle into position. Before he did, Beth began a steady volley of fire at the dark figure at the window of the cabin. I watched all of this, dividing my time between keeping the bow of the Formula into the waves, and looking back to be sure Beth was okay.

Tobin seemed to disappear from the cabin, and I wondered if he'd been hit. But then, all of a sudden, the Chris-Craft spotlight, mounted on the bow, went on, illuminating the Formula and also revealing Beth kneeling in the stern. "Damn it." Beth was slipping her last magazine into the Glock, and Tobin was now back at the windshield, aiming the rifle with both hands and letting the wheel go.

I drew my.38, spun around, and jammed my back against the wheel to hold it as I tried to steady my aim. Tobin's rifle was pointing right at Beth from less than fifteen feet away.

For a half second, it seemed as if everything was frozen — both boats, Beth, Tobin, me, and the sea itself. I fired. The barrel of Tobin's rifle, which was clearly lined up on Beth, all of a sudden swung toward me and I saw the muzzle flash at about the same time that the Chris-Craft, with no hand on the helm, lurched to port, and Tobin's shot went wide. The Chris-Craft was now at right angles to the stern of the Formula, and I could see Tobin in the side window of the cabin. In fact, he saw me and we made eye contact. I fired three more rounds into the cabin and his side window shattered. When I looked again, he was gone.

I noticed now that trailing behind the Chris-Craft was the small Whaler that had been in the boathouse. I had no doubt now that Tobin intended to use the Whaler to land on Plum Island.

The Chris-Craft bobbed around aimlessly, and I could tell there was no one at the helm. Just as I was wondering if I'd hit him, his bow came around very deliberately, and the spotlight again illuminated us. Beth fired at the light, and on the third shot, it exploded in a shower of sparks and glass.

Tobin was not to be foiled, and he gunned the Chris-Craft's engines. His bow was closing on the stern of the Formula. He would have rammed us except that Beth had pulled the flare pistol from her pocket and fired it right into the windshield of the cabin cruiser's bridge. There was a blinding white explosion of phosphorus and the Chris-Craft veered off as Tobin, I imagined, let go of the helm real fast and dived for cover. In fact, maybe he was burned, blinded, or dead.

Beth was yelling, "Go! Go!"

I had already opened the throttles and the Formula was picking up speed.

I could see flames licking around the bridge of the Chris-Craft. Beth and I looked at one another, both wondering if maybe we'd gotten lucky. But as we watched Tobin's boat behind us, the flames seemed to subside. At a distance of about forty feet, we again heard the hailing horn crackle and again the little bastard had something to say.

"Corey! I'm coming for you! And for you, too, Ms. Bitch! I'll kill you both! I'll kill you!"

I said to Beth, "I think he means it."

"How dare he call me bitch."

"Well… of course he's just taunting you. He doesn't know you, so how can he know that you're a bitch? I mean, if you're a bitch."

"I know what you mean."

"Right."

"Haul ass, John. He's getting close again."

"Right." I gave it more throttle, but the extra speed made the Formula unstable. In fact, I hit an oncoming wave so hard the bow pitched up at too steep an angle, and I thought we were going to back-flip. I could hear Beth scream, and I thought she'd been pitched overboard, but when the boat came down, she rolled across the deck and dropped halfway down the companionway stairs before she came to a stop. She lay on the stairs, and I called out, "Are you okay?"

She got up on all fours and crawled up the companionway. "I'm all right…"

I cut back on the throttles and said, "Go below and take a break."

She shook her head and positioned herself between her seat and the dashboard. She said, "You watch for waves and channel markers. I'll watch for Tobin."

"Okay." I had the thought that maybe Beth was right, and I should try to circle around and come up behind him, rather than him coming up behind us again. Maybe if he was sitting in his nice dry cabin, he wouldn't see us and we could board him. But if he saw us, we'd be looking down the muzzle of that rifle again.

The only advantage we had was our speed, but as we saw, we couldn't take full advantage of it in this weather.

I said to Beth, "Nice going. Good thinking."

She didn't reply.

"Do you have any more signal flares?"

"Five more."

"Good."

"Not really. I lost the flare gun."

"Do you want to go back and try to find it?"

"I'm tired of your jokes."

"Me, too. But it's all we've got."

So, we continued on in silence, through the storm, which was getting worse if that were possible.

Finally, she said, "I thought I was dead."

I replied, "We can't let him get that close again."

She looked at me and said, "He passed me up to get you."

"That's the story of my life. Whenever somebody has only one shot, I'm the one they pick."

She almost smiled, then disappeared below. Less than a minute later, she came back and handed me another beer. She said, "Every time you do good, you get a beer."

"I don't have many tricks left. How many more beers do you have?"

'Two."

"That should work out."

I contemplated my options and realized I'd run out of most of them. There were only two possible harbors left now — the ferry slip at Orient Point and the cove at Plum Island. Orient Point was probably coming up to the left by now and Plum Island was two miles farther. I looked at the gas gauge. The needle was in the red but not yet touching E.

The sea was so bad now I couldn't even see the channel markers for long periods at a time. I knew that Tobin, sitting high in his cabin bridge, had a better view of the markers and of us. As I thought about that, it suddenly struck me that he must have radar — ship-hazard radar, which was how he'd found us. And he must also have a depth-finder, which made navigation much easier for him even if he lost sight of the channel markers. In short, the Sandra was no match for the Autumn Cold. "Damn it."

Every once in a while with increasing frequency, a wave broke over the bow or sides, and I could feel the Formula getting heavier. In fact, I was sure we were riding lower in the water. The extra weight was slowing us up and burning more gas. I realized that Tobin could overtake us at the speed we were going. I realized, too, that we were losing the battle against the sea as well as the naval engagement.

I glanced at Beth, and she sensed me looking at her and our eyes met. She said, "In case we capsize or sink, I want to tell you now that I actually like you."

I smiled and replied, "I know that." I looked at her and said, "I'm sorry. I never should have — "

"Drive and shut up."

I turned my attention back to the wheel. The Formula was moving so slowly now that the following sea was coming over the stern. In a short time, we would be swamped, or the engine compartment would be flooded, and/or Tobin would be on top of us and we weren't going to outrun him this time.

Beth kept looking for Tobin and, of course, she saw the sea washing over the stern and couldn't help but realize the boat was lower and slower. She said, "John, we're going to swamp."

I looked again at the gas gauge. The only chance we had at this point was to gun the engines and see what happened. I put my hand on the throttles and pushed them all the way forward.

The Formula moved out, slowly at first, then gathered some speed. We were taking on less water from the stern, but the boat was slamming hard and heavy into the oncoming waves. So hard, in fact, it was like hitting a brick wall every five seconds. I thought the craft was going to break up, but the fiberglass hull held.

Beth was holding on in her seat, rising and falling with each encounter with a wave.

Leaving it at full throttle was working, as far as keeping control and keeping from getting swamped, but it wasn't doing much for fuel economy. Yet, I had no choice. In the great realm of trade-offs, I had traded off the certainty of sinking now against the certainty of running out of gas shortly. Big deal.

But my experience with fuel gauges — ever since I had my first car — was that they show either more fuel than you have left, or less fuel than you have left. I didn't know how this gauge lied, but I would soon find out.

Beth said, "How's the gas?"

"Fine."

She tried to put a light tone in her voice and said, "Do you want to stop for gas and ask directions?"

"Nope. Real men don't ask directions, and we have enough gas to get to Plum Island."

She smiled.

I said to her, "Go below awhile."

"What if we capsize?"

"We're too heavy now to capsize. We'll sink. But you'll have plenty of warning. Take a break."

"Okay." She went below. I took the chart out of the open glove compartment and divided my attention between it and the sea. Off to the left in the far distance, I caught a glimpse of a flashing strobe light, and I knew that had to be Orient Point Lighthouse. I glanced at the chart. If I turned due north now, I would probably be able to find the Orient Point ferry slips. But there were so many rocks and shoals between the ferry and the lighthouse that it would take a miracle to get past them. The other possibility was to go on another two miles or so and try for the cove at Plum Island. But that meant going into Plum Gut, which was treacherous enough in normal tides and winds. In a storm — or hurricane — it would be… well, challenging, to say the least.

Beth came up the companionway, lurching from side to side and pitching forward, then back. I caught her outstretched hand and hauled her up. She presented me with an unwrapped chocolate bar. I said, "Thanks."

She said, "The water's ankle deep below. Bilge pumps are still working."

"Good. The boat's feeling a little lighter."

"Terrific. Take a break below. I'll drive."

"I'm okay. How's your little scratch?"

"It's okay. How's your little brain?"

"I left it onshore." As I ate my chocolate bar, I explained our options.

She understood our chances clearly and said, "So, we can smash up on the rocks at Orient Point or drown in the Gut?"

"Right." I tapped the fuel gauge and said, "We're well past the point where we can turn back to Greenport."

"I think we missed our opportunity there."

"I guess so…" I asked her, "So? Orient or Plum?"

She looked at the chart awhile and said, "There are too many navigation hazards between here and Orient." She looked out to the left and added, "I don't even see any channel markers leading to Orient. I wouldn't be surprised if some of them haven't broken loose and floated away."

I nodded. "Yeah…"

Beth said, "And forget the Gut. Nothing less than an ocean liner could get through there in this storm." She added, "If we had more fuel, we could ride this out until the eye passes over." She looked up from the chart and said, "We have no options."

Which may have been true. Tom and Judy once told me that the instinct to sail toward land in a storm was often the wrong thing to do. The coast was treacherous, it was where the breaking waves could pulverize or capsize your boat or drive you into the rocks. It was actually safer to ride out the storm in the open sea as long as you had fuel or sail left. But we didn't even have that option because we had a guy with a rifle and radar on our ass. We had no choice but to press on and see what God and nature had in store for us. I said, "We'll hold course and speed."

She nodded. "Okay. That's about all we can do… What -?"

I looked at her and saw she was staring toward the stern. I looked back, but saw nothing.

She said, "I saw him… I think I saw him." Beth jumped up on the chair and managed to keep her balance for a second before she was pitched off and onto the deck. She scrambled to her feet and shouted, "He's right behind us!"

"Damn it!" I knew now that the son of a bitch definitely had radar. I was glad I hadn't tried to get around him. I said to Beth, "It's not that our luck is so bad, it's that he has radar. He's had a fix on us from the start."

She nodded and said, "No place to run, no place to hide."

"No place to hide for sure, but let's try to run."

I opened the throttles all the way, and we picked up more speed.

Neither of us spoke as the Formula cut heavily through the waves. I estimated we were making about twenty knots, which was about one-third of what this boat could do in a calm sea and without a bilge-and cabinful of seawater. I guessed that the Chris-Craft could do at least twenty knots in this weather, which was why he was able to catch up to us. In fact, Beth said, "John, he's gaining on us."

I looked back and saw the vague outline of Tobin's boat as it crested a huge wave about forty feet behind us. In about five minutes or less, he'd be able to place fairly accurate rifle fire on us, while my.38 and Beth's 9mm pistol were really useless except for the occasional lucky shot. Beth asked me, "How many rounds do you have left?"

"Let's see… the cylinder holds five… I shot four… so, how many bullets does the copper have left in — "

"This is not a fucking joke!"

"I'm trying to lighten the moment."

I heard some four-letter words coming from Ms. Penrose's prim mouth, then she asked me, "Can you get any more speed out of this fucking thing?"

"Maybe. Get something heavy down below and smash that windshield."

She dove down below and came up with a fire extinguisher, which she used to smash the glass out of her windshield. Then she threw the extinguisher overboard.

I said, "At this speed, we're not taking on as much water, and the pumps will lighten the weight a little more every minute, and we'll pick up a little more speed." I added, "Plus we're burning all that heavy fuel."

"I don't need a lesson in physics."

She was angry and that was much better than the quiet resignation I'd seen taking hold earlier. It's good to be pissed off when man and nature conspire to do you in.

Beth made a few more trips below and came back each time with something to toss overboard, including, unfortunately, the beer from the refrigerator. She managed to get a portable TV set up the stairs and over the side. She also threw some clothes and shoes overboard, and it occurred to me that if we lost Freddie, he might see the flotsam and jetsam and conclude that we'd gone under.

We were picking up a little more speed, but the Chris-Craft was gaining on us and there was no escaping the fact that he was going to begin laying down rifle fire very soon. I asked Beth, "How many rounds do you have left?"

"Nine."

"You only had three magazines?"

"Only? You're running around with a damned five-shot peashooter and not a single extra bullet on you, and you have the nerve — " She suddenly crouched behind the seat and pulled her pistol. She said, "I saw a muzzle flash."

I glanced back and sure enough, there was Fearless Fucking Freddie in his shooting post. The muzzle flashed again. Shooting at one another from storm-tossed boats is easy; hitting anything is difficult, so I wasn't overly concerned yet, but there would be a moment when both boats were hanging on a crest and Tobin had the advantage of the higher perch and the long barrel.

Beth was wisely holding her fire.

I saw the Orient Point Lighthouse directly to my left and much closer than before. I realized I'd been blown north even as I'd kept an easterly heading. I realized, too, there was only one thing left to do, and I did it. I cut the wheel hard left, and the boat headed toward the Gut.

Beth called out, "What are you doing?"

"We're running for the Gut."

"John, we'll drown there!"

"It's either that or Tobin picks us off with his rifle or he rams and sinks us and laughs as he watches us drown." I added, "If we go down in the Gut, maybe he'll go down with us."

She didn't reply.

The storm was coming in from the south, and as soon as I got my bow heading north, the boat picked up some speed. Within a minute, I could see the outline of Plum Island to my right front. To my left front was the Orient Lighthouse. I aimed at a point between the light and the coast of Plum Island, right into Plum Gut.

At first, Tobin followed, but as the waves got worse and as the wind blowing between both bodies of land got supersonic, we lost sight of him, and I guessed that he'd given up the chase. I was pretty sure I knew what he was going to do next and where he was headed. I hoped I'd be alive in fifteen minutes to see if I was right.

We were into the Gut now, smack in the middle of it, between Orient Point to the west and Plum Island to the east, Gardiners Bay to the south, and Long Island Sound to the north. I recalled that Stevens said that a hurricane a few hundred years before had deepened the seafloor here, and I could believe it. I mean, it was like a washing machine with all kinds of stuff being turned up from the seabed — sand, seaweed, wood, junk, and debris of every type. There was no pretense of me controlling the boat any longer. The Formula was nothing more than another piece of flotsam and jetsam now, going with the flow. The boat actually broached, which in plain English means it spun around a few times, and we found ourselves pointing south, east, and west at various times, but the storm kept driving us north into the Sound, which is where I wanted to be.

The idea of trying to get into Plum Island cove was almost laughable now that I saw what a horrendous place this was.

Beth managed to make her way toward me, and she wedged herself into my chair behind me. She wrapped her legs and arms around me as I held on to the wheel for dear life. It was nearly impossible to talk, but she buried her face in my neck, and I could hear her say, "I'm scared."

Scared? I was terrorized out of my fucking mind. This was easily the worst experience of my life, if you don't count my walk down the aisle to the altar.

The Formula was being tossed around so badly now that I was totally disoriented. There were times when I realized we were literally airborne, and I knew that the boat — which had shown good stability in the water — could actually flip upside down in midair, I think it was only the bilgewater that kept us hull-side down during our launches into the stratosphere.

I'd had the presence of mind to cut the throttles to idle as soon as I saw that the propellers were spending more time in the air than the water. Fuel management is a long-term strategy, and I was in a short-term situation — but, hey, you never know.

Beth was clinging tighter, and if it weren't for our imminent deaths by drowning, I might have found this pleasant. As it was, I hoped the physical contact gave her some comfort. I know it did for me. She spoke again into my ear and said, "If we go in the water, hold me tight."

I nodded. I thought again of how Tobin had already killed five good people and was about to be the cause of two more dying. I couldn't believe that this little turd had actually caused all this death and misery. The only explanation I had for it was that short people with beady eyes and big appetites were ruthless and dangerous. They really had a bone to pick with the world. You know? Well, maybe there was more to it.

Anyway, we were blown through the Gut like a spitball through a straw. Ironically, I think it was the very ferocity of the storm that got us through okay, and we were probably on an incoming tide, I mean, the whole thrust of the sea, wind, and tide was north, which sort of canceled out the usual treacherous swirling of the wind and the tides in the Gut. Sort of like the difference between being caught in a flushing toilet bowl or being in the waste pipe, to stretch an analogy.

We were in the Long Island Sound now, and the seas and wind were a little better. I revved up the engines and headed the boat east.

Beth was still behind me, holding on, but not as tight.

Off to our fight front was the dark shape of the old Plum Island Lighthouse. I knew if we could get behind that headland, we would be a little more protected from the wind and seas, just as we had been when we had Shelter Island between us and the storm. Plum Island was not as elevated as Shelter Island, and it was a lot more exposed to the open Atlantic, but it should offer some protection.

Beth said, "Are we alive?"

"Sure." I added, "You were very brave. Very calm."

"I was paralyzed with fear."

"Whatever." I took one hand off the wheel and squeezed her right hand, which was clamped on to my tummy.

So, we got on the leeward side of Plum Island, and we passed the lighthouse on our right. I could see now into the lantern of the lighthouse, and what I saw was a green dot, sort of following us. I drew Beth's attention to it, and she said, "Night-seeing device. We're being watched by some of Mr. Stevens' men."

"Indeed," I agreed. "That's about all the security they have left on a night like this."

The wind was partly blocked by Plum Island, and the sea was just a bit calmer. We could hear the waves crashing up on the beach about a hundred yards away.

Through the driving rain, I could see a glow of lights behind the trees, and I realized this was the security lighting of the main laboratory building. This meant the generators were still working and this in turn meant that the air filters and scrubbers were still doing their job. It would have been really unfair if we'd survived the storm, landed on Plum Island, and died of anthrax. Really.

Beth let go of me and squeezed out of her nook between my seat and my butt. She stood beside me, holding the grip on the dashboard. She asked me, "What do you think happened to Tobin?"

"I think he continued on around the south end of the island. I think he thinks we're dead."

"Probably," Beth replied. "I thought so, too."

"Right. Unless he has radio contact with someone on Plum Island who knows from the guy in the lighthouse that we made it."

She thought a moment and asked, "Do you think he has an accomplice on Plum Island?"

"I don't know. But we're about to find out."

"Okay… so where is Tobin going now?"

"There's only one place he can go and that's right here, on this side of the Island."

She nodded. "In other words, he's coming around from the other direction, and we'll meet him coming at us."

"Well, I'll try to avoid that. But he's definitely got to get on the leeward side if he's going to anchor and get onto the beach with that Whaler."

She thought a moment, then asked, "Are we going to land on the island?"

"I hope so."

"How?"

"I'll try to run up on the beach."

She took the chart out again and said, "There are rocks and shoals along most of this beach."

"Well, pick a place where there aren't any rocks or shoals."

"I'll try."

We moved east for another ten minutes. I looked at the fuel gauge and saw it read Empty. I knew I should make my run to the beach now because if I ran out of fuel, we'd be at the mercy of the weather, and we would either blow out to sea or wash up onto the rocks. But I wanted to at least catch sight of Tobin's boat before I beached.

Beth said, "John, we're about out of gas. You'd better head in."

"In a minute."

"We don't have a minute. It's about a hundred yards to the beach. Turn now."

"See if you can spot the Chris-Craft in front of us."

The binoculars were still on the strap around her neck, and she raised them and peered out over the bow. She said, "No, I don't see any boat. Turn into the beach."

"Another minute."

"No. Now. We did all of this your way. Now we do it my way."

"Okay…" But before I began my turn into the beach, the wind suddenly dropped and I could see this incredible wall of towering clouds rising above us. More incredibly, I saw the night sky overhead, circled by these swirling walls of clouds, as if we were at the bottom of a well. Then I saw stars, which I never thought I'd see again.

Beth said, "The eye is passing over us."

The wind was much calmer though the waves weren't. The starlight filtered into this sort of round hole, and we could see the beach and the sea.

Beth said, "Go for it, John. You won't get another chance like this."

And she was right. I could see the breaking waves so I could time them, and I could also see any rocks protruding out of the water as well as shoaling waves, which indicated shoals and sandbars.

"Go!"

"One minute. I really want to see where that bastard made land. I don't want to lose him on the island."

"John, you're out of gas!"

"Plenty of gas. Look for the Chris-Craft."

Beth seemed resigned to my idiocy, and she raised the binoculars and scanned the horizon. After what seemed like a half hour, but was probably a minute or two, she pointed and called out, "There!" She handed me the binoculars.

I looked into the rainy darkness and sure enough, silhouetted against the dark horizon, was a shape that could have been the fly bridge of the Chris-Craft — or could have been a pile of rocks.

As we got a little closer, I saw that it was definitely the Chris-Craft, and it was relatively motionless, indicating that Tobin had at least two anchors out, bow and stern. I handed Beth the binoculars. "Okay. We're going in. Hold on. Look for rocks and stuff."

Beth knelt on her seat and leaned forward, her hands gripped on the top of the glassless windshield frame. Whenever she moved, I could tell by the expression on her face that she was in some pain from her wound.

I turned the Formula 90 degrees to starboard and pointed the bow at the distant beach. Waves began breaking over the stern, and I gave the engines more gas. I needed about one more minute of fuel.

The beach got closer and more distinct. The waves smashing onto the sand were monstrous and getting louder as we got closer. Beth called out, "Sandbar right ahead!"

I knew I couldn't turn in time so I gave it full throttle, and we ripped across the sandbar.

The beach was less than fifty yards away now, and I thought we actually had a chance. Then the Formula hit something a lot harder than a sandbar, and I heard the unmistakable sound of splitting fiberglass and a half second later, the boat lifted out of the water, then came down with a thud.

I glanced at Beth and saw she was still hanging on.

The boat was very sluggish now, and I could picture water pouring in through the smashed hull. The engines seemed to be laboring even at full throttle. The incoming waves were pushing us toward the beach, but now the undertow was pulling us back between waves. If we were making any forward headway at all, it was very slow. Meanwhile, the boat was filling with water, and in fact I could see the water sloshing on the bottom step of the companionway.

Beth called out, "We're not moving! Let's swim for it!"

"No! Stay with the boat. Wait for the perfect wave."

And we waited, watching the shoreline get closer, then receding for about six wave cycles. I looked behind me and watched the swells forming. Finally, I saw a huge wave forming behind us, and I threw the nearly swamped Formula into neutral. The boat pitched backwards a little and caught the wave just below its mounting crest. I called out, "Get down and hold on!"

Beth dropped down and clung to the base of her chair.

The wave propelled us like a surfboard on its hanging crest with such force that the eight-thousand-pound Formula, filled with thousands more pounds of water, acted like a reed basket caught in a raging river. I had anticipated an amphibian-type landing, but this was going to be an airborne drop.

As we hurtled toward the beach, I had the presence of mind to switch off the engines so that if we actually survived the landing, the Formula wouldn't explode, assuming there was any fuel left. I was also concerned about the twin props chopping our heads off. "Hold on!" I yelled.

"No shit!" she replied.

We came down bow first onto the wave-washed beach. The Formula rolled to the side, and we both jumped clear of the boat, just as another wave came crashing in. I found a rock outcropping and wrapped my arm around it as my free hand found Beth's wrist. The wave broke and receded, and we stood and ran like hell for the higher ground, Beth holding her side where she'd been hit.

We came to the face of an eroded bluff and began scrambling up it, the wet sand, clay, and iron oxide falling away in great chunks. Beth said, "Welcome to Plum Island."

"Thank you." Somehow, we got to the top of the bluff and collapsed on the high ground. We lay in the grass for a full minute. Then I sat up and looked down at the beach. The Formula was capsized, and I could see that its white hull was split open. The boat rolled again as the backwash took it out to sea, and then it righted itself for a minute, then capsized again and another wave took it toward the beach. I said to Beth, "I wouldn't want to be in that boat."

She replied, "No, and I also don't want to be on this island."

"Out of the fire," I said, "and into the frying pan."

"You bug me," she replied.

"There's an idea for a T-shirt," I suggested. "I got bugged on Plum Island. Get it?"

"Would you mind shutting up for about five minutes?"

"Not at all."

In fact, I welcomed the relative silence after hours of wind, rain, and ship's engines. I could actually hear my heart thumping, the blood pounding in my ears, and my lung wheezing. I could also hear a little voice in my head saying, "Beware of little men with big rifles."